


What Lies Beneath

by mrbarbacarisi



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Captivity, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Therapy, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrbarbacarisi/pseuds/mrbarbacarisi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint attends therapy sessions to address his experience with Loki. He soon discovers that SHIELD has much darker motives. </p><p>Or where Clint was while Steve and Natasha were fighting the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: A Difficult Case

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been resurrected and revamped in light of the events of Cap 2. There shouldn't be that many spoilers for the first couple chapters and I will mark when the spoilers start at the beginning of the chapter which contains them. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been resurrected and revamped in light of the events of Cap 2. There shouldn't be any spoilers for the first couple chapters and I will mark when the spoilers start at the beginning of the chapter which contains them. Enjoy!

Doctor Teresa Hayes taps her fingers on the arm of the chair, studying the man across from her. Clint Barton. A SHIELD agent, archer, assassin, Avenger – one of the six people who had saved the world just six months ago. A definite hero.

Yet, this man, who had faced more dangerous people in his lifetime, refuses to look her in the eye.

She sighs. "Why are you here, Agent Barton?"

His jaw clenches, his hands stilling their idle movements. He stares at his lap.

"You know damn well why," he replies tightly.

"You've been in this room for thirty minutes and you've barely said a word." She leans forward. "If you're this reluctant to receive treatment, why did you attend this session?"

He looks toward the door. "Director's orders."

"And do you know why Director Fury ordered you here?"

He raises a hand, rubbing his palm over his eyes before looking downward again.

"My mental condition has been hindering my performance during missions and is creating an increasingly tense environment for the team," he speaks dully, as if reciting a passage from a text.

"Thank you, Nick," she says lightly.

This causes Barton to look up finally, frowning in confusion. _Probably the first time he has heard anyone refer to the Director by his first name_ , she muses. But she has his attention.

"This is about you, Barton. Nothing leaves this room. I don't want to hear Fury's thoughts, or Stark's, or anyone else's. Just _yours_. If you can't share them, then you might as well leave now."

He stares at her for a moment and then settles back into his chair. "Well, that can't happen."

She relaxes slightly. "Alright. Now that we're on the same page, just _why_ are you so reluctant?"

He snorts, rubbing his forehead. "I could really use a drink."

"I need an answer."

He sobers immediately, biting his lip.

"I'm not overly fond of being picked apart."

She nods. "Okay. So you're equating this conversation to what Loki did to you."

When he looks at her this time, it is a sharp glare.

"Subconsciously or consciously, that is what you're doing, is it not?"

He shakes his head. "You're nothing like him."

Hayes raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Because I'm a woman?"

He gives her an exasperated look, appearing as if he is trying very hard not to roll his eyes. "No. Because you have no control over me."

"I don't have control over you? A minute ago, I ordered you to answer a question and you obeyed."

"That's different. That's following orders. That's not..." he trails off, releasing a deep breath.

"And how is 'following orders' different?" she asks, curious to see where his logic would lead.

"I don't _have_ to follow them." He sighs. "It's a choice."

"Whereas Loki didn't give you a choice."

He nods.

"So you feel helpless."

He frowns. "No. Not helpless. I'm not _desperate_."

"Interesting. You seem to have a strong disapproval of that word."

"What? Desperate?"

"Yes," she replies. "What about desperation upsets you?"

"Desperation doesn't upset me. I'm just not desperate."

"Then what are you?"

He swallows, looking away with a pained expression. "You mean, what do I feel."

"Yes."

"Guilt," he says softly.

"Why do you feel guilty?"

His eyes flick up to hers. She can see the grief in them.

"I killed people. Good, honest people. I killed _agents_."

Hayes would give him a reassuring touch at this point, but Barton would not appreciate the gesture. Barton is closed off, almost an introvert. Any sign of affection would be reacted to defensively, enlarging the distance between them. She wanted him to trust her on some level. Her hands remain in her lap.

"That was not your fault."

Judging by the content in his file, she was expecting an angry or violent reaction, but he only chuckles.

"Yeah. If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that," he snaps derisively.

"Why don't you believe it?"

He gives her a serious look. "Why should I?"

"Because you weren't in control."

"I _was_ in control," he counters.

"Alright. Let's look at this objectively." She pauses. "What exactly did Loki do? Simply."

"For lack of a better term...he brainwashed me."

"To believe what?"

"To believe in him."

"Believe in him how? As a god?"

"As a commander," he clarified.

"Ah. Okay," Hayes says in understanding. "Loki replaced your loyalty to SHIELD with a loyalty to him."

Barton's eyes betray his passive expression. She can clearly see his shock and wonder.

"Well, I definitely haven't heard that before."

She smiles. "That's why you're here, Barton. I'm going to help you understand and eventually accept what happened to you. So you can move on from this guilt."

He nods. "And how soon will I be able to continue field work?"

"As soon as I sign off on it," she replies.

Barton gives her a bland look. That is not the answer he wants.

"There is no way to project the duration of your recovery," she explains calmly, scanning his features for any negative reaction. He remains silent and still. "It's a learning process. I'm teaching you look at the situation far differently than you have been previously. This isn't going to be easy and it won't happen overnight. But if you attend your sessions and cooperate with me, this process will be a little easier."

He only nods in response, reverting his gaze to his lap.

"I understand your need to fulfill your duty as an agent, but your mental health is more important."

He stands. "I believe the hour is over."

She stands as well, knowing he wouldn't leave until he was dismissed. "Would you beg to go in the field if you had a serious injury?"

"Of course not." He looks baffled.

"This is the same, Barton. Only the problem isn't immediately visible."

"And there's no projected recovery time," he adds sullenly.

"Just work with me," she urges. "Be patient."

"I'll do my best."

"Good. That should do for today. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

She watches him exit the room and releases a sigh. This was going to be a difficult case.


	2. Part I: Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been resurrected and revamped in light of the events of Cap 2. There shouldn't be any spoilers for the first couple chapters and I will mark when the spoilers start at the beginning of the chapter which contains them. Enjoy!

As Clint walks through SHIELD headquarters, agents avoid his gaze and swerve out of his path. Whispers erupt around him. He imagines what they are saying:

 _“Who is he, thinking he can walk around here like nothing happened?”_      

_“Why isn’t he being punished?”_

_“He killed my best friend.”_

_“How can he be trusted?”_

_“He could turn on us at any second.”_

_“What if he’s still under Loki’s control?”_

_“He should be locked away for good.”_

_“He should be dead.”_

The only reason Clint can devise for his freedom is Fury. Natasha brought him back from Loki’s control. Fury trusts Natasha. Therefore, Clint is free as long as Fury believed he is safe and uncompromised.

But he _is_ compromised. Loki got inside his head. He read every thought, dream, and idea he had ever had. He knows everything about Clint – his childhood, his relationships, and his mission history. Loki knows _everything_. Clint’s secrets are no longer his, and never would be again.

Clint slows his pace once he reaches Doctor Hayes’ office. These sessions are a pointless exercise. Three months of them and he doesn’t feel any different. The guilt still hangs around him like a cloak, crushing his chest in his sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of it.

He knocks on the door. Hayes’ voice tells him to come in.

Clint steps into her office, glancing over to the patient chair. He decides to stand.

Hayes walks over to her chair from her desk, carrying a clipboard.

“Please have a seat, Clint,” she says. She stopped calling him by his last name after the first session.

“No,” he replies shortly.

She examines him carefully. Stiff posture, hard gaze, fists clenched. He is ready for a fight.

“I know you dislike these sessions, Clint,” she says. “But they are necessary.”

“Why?” he demands. “How on Earth do you expect to ‘help me move past’ what _he_ did to me? A god picked apart my brain, made me into a puppet. There is no going back from that.”

“None of us want to see you suffer,” Hayes says. “Talking about the situation can help you.”

“It’s been _three months_ ,” he insists. “I feel exactly the same. I killed good people. Everyone here hates me. They want me dead, and I agree with them. You should stop trying to heal me and punish me.”

“Your suicidal tendencies are what I wanted to discuss today,” Hayes speaks softly, gesturing to the empty chair. “Please sit down, Clint.”

He stares at her for a moment. Reading people was never his best skill, but he could easily tell when someone was being disingenuous. In this moment, Hayes was not. She genuinely wants to help. Why? He did not understand.

Clint sits across from her.

“Clint,” she begins. “I realize that you are truly unhappy. I also realize that the only person you can safely discuss this with is myself. With your handler gone…” she trails off, seeing his face harden. She swallows. “I had hoped to bring Agent Romanoff into one of your sessions, but she has been assigned on a long-term operation and is unreachable.”

Clint nods. Nat had been sent off on an infiltration op, taking down a human trafficking ring in Russia. She went deep undercover. Any contact would jeopardize the mission. He still remembers what she said to him before she left: _“You’re not alone in this.”_ With Coulson (his heart lurches every time he thinks of his late handler) gone as well, he felt very alone.

“In light of your current situation,” Hayes continues, “I think it would be best to put you into twenty-four hour care.”

“You mean, you want to put me into a mental hospital,” he spits, his body tensing. He had only been to an insane asylum once on a mission. It was a nightmare.

“I want to put you into a psychiatric hospital because I believe that is best place for you right now,” she says, her voice tender. “While several SHIELD agents have been monitoring your behavior, I do not feel comfortable with your depression. I’m afraid you’ll hurt yourself if you are left to your own devices.”

Clint is silent. If he’s honest, the only reason he hasn’t tried to kill himself already is because of Natasha. It felt wrong to leave her without saying goodbye. Now, he wishes he had.

“Clint,” Hayes calls softly.

“I’m not going,” he states flatly. He’d rather have his limbs cut off than be trapped in a facility with eyes watching his every move. No control, only rules that he will be forced to follow. His chest tightens.

“Clint, it’s best for you. If you cooperate, you shouldn’t be there long,” she says. “You could be out and healed before Natasha returns.”

“Don’t drag her into his,” he threatens, standing. “I’m not going to receive your ‘treatment’ because of her, or because of _anyone_. I’m done with this shit.”

Hayes stands as well. “Clint, just lis-”

“No. You can’t force me to do anything.”

He charges toward the door, yanking it open. Just before he exits the room, he hears Hayes call in security. He breaks into a run, hearing several sets of footsteps follow him. He’ll have to fight his way out.

An agent reaches for his arm in Clint’s peripheral vision. He swings his elbow toward his face, feeling and hearing the agent’s nose break with a satisfying crunch. He keeps running, launching into a sprint as he counts the footsteps behind him. There are five men in pursuit.

Clint jumps toward the wall, kicking off of it with a spin. His foot hits one of the agents, and a punch knocks him to the ground. Without a pause, he launches against the next target, sending a powerful blow to the third agent’s gut. Clint takes him out with a sweeping kick to his ankles.

The fourth agent knows he’s coming and manages to get Clint into a headlock. He feels a sharp prick on his neck. Sedative. He has to move fast. Clint leans forward, taking the guard off of his feet. He throws him to the ground, landing with a hard thud.

Four more agents flank the fifth man. Clint turns and runs toward the exit at the end of the hall. It’s an emergency exit, and alarms will go off, but he has no choice. Besides, if anything were to be considered an emergency, it would be this.

Just as Clint kicks the door open, a dart pierces his shoulder. He groans, yanking it out and tossing it aside. He tries to run, but he’s losing his balance. His eyes won’t stay open. Terror shoots through him as he falls to the ground.

Just before he loses consciousness, he hears Hayes.

“We’re just trying to help you, Clint.”


	3. Part I: Asylum

Clint wakes with a headache. Groaning, he attempts to bring his hands to his head, only to discover that he is restrained. He lies on an uncomfortable hospital bed in an oppressively white room. Black Velcro straps are secured around his wrists and ankles. He strains against them to test their strength.

He turns when the door opened.

Hayes steps in, giving him a bright smile. If he weren’t restrained, he would snap her neck.

“I’m sorry, Clint,” she says. “This was the only way to make sure you were taken care of.”

“I’m fine. Get me out of here,” he snaps, but he knows it’s useless. She isn’t going to change her mind.

“Being here will help you. You’ll see.” Her voice holds the same gentle, condescending tone it had back in her office. “I’ll be here to help you.”

Of course _she’d_ be here. It’s not like SHIELD would give any civilian doctor the sensitive, classified details of his case.

“Where am I?” he sighs, exasperated with his situation.

“You’re in a SHIELD psychiatric facility,” Hayes answers. “We have the best doctors and staff here. It’s the best place for you.”

Clint notes that she gave no details about the facility’s location. He’d have to try to discern that himself.

“Yeah. Got that,” he replies, clenching his fists. The restraints tighten against his wrists. “Look, can we get these things off?”

Hayes looks at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll ask one of the orderlies.”

She steps outside and he brainstorms a plan of action. He can’t fight back until he has an escape route. He doesn’t know the layout of the facility, except for this room. He’d be running blind. Plus, if he tried to fight, he would most likely be sedated again. Not fun. It’s possible if he cooperated, he’d gain more access to the facility. From there, he’d be able to figure out an escape route.

He wouldn’t fight just yet. He’d cooperate.

* * *

 

A month. He’s sure he has been here for a month. A month of following orders from guards and orderlies. A month of sessions with Hayes. And three weeks of taking anti-depressants.

He had tried to avoid taking the pills they gave him, tucking them away in the lining of this throat until he could spit them out and flush them away. But about a week in, they discovered what he had been doing. Now, he had to take his pills with Hayes and a guard. They watched him swallow it down, and then inspected his mouth and throat for the pill. It was humiliating.

But he stuck to the plan. Cooperate, get intel, then escape.

So far, he has discovered that there were about 100 patients in the facility, which has four floors. Clint is on the second.

Each floor has about 20 patients. On his floor, there are only 16, including himself. All appear to be SHIELD agents. Most of them have never heard of him. Or if they have heard of him, it’s because he fought with the Avengers. None of them know about his encounter with Loki. One of the good things about this place is the lack of haunting whispers.

Each floor also has a common room area, where all meals are served (unless a patient has been restricted to his room) and where all events are held. The room has several tables, a bookcase filled with all kinds of genres, and plenty of board games. It does not have a TV.

Security cameras hang from every hallway and there is a camera in each patient’s room. Guards sit inside security booths, monitoring the live feeds for any suspicious activities. That was probably how they found out he’d been flushing his pills.

Outside, there is a small fenced-off garden. Patients only get to go outside if they are trusted not to attempt an escape. This provision does not make sense to Clint, considering that the fence is electrified. One touch and you’re fried. He supposes it goes back into their positive reinforcement scheme. The message is clear: cooperate and you get fresh air.

Clint does not miss the fresh air. He doesn’t even miss his freedom. What he misses most is his bow.

* * *

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Hayes asks.

“Beginning of what?” Clint replies, slouching in his chair.

The room is similar to Hayes’ office in headquarters. Two chairs sit opposite each other. A desk on his left faces the door on his right. The wall behind the desk is a large floor-to-ceiling window.

“Beginning of Loki,” Hayes clarifies.

“What is the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What happened when he first took control? How did it happen?”

Clint suddenly feels chilled. He is frozen, right down to the bone. He shakes his head.

“Why does that matter?” he demands.

Hayes leans forward, speaking quietly. “Because you’ve been so cooperative, after this session I’m willing to let you have an hour in the shooting range. But, you need to tell me what it was like. Sometimes, by going back to the beginning, we can gain a better understanding than if we just skipped to the end.”

He blinks. The only words that he cares about are “shooting” and  “range.” The fortune cookie wisdom can wait.

“There’s a shooting range here?” he asks.

“Of course there is,” she answered cheerily. “The guards use it to practice their aim or to blow off steam. If a patient is trusted and cooperative, sometimes we let him go down there and practice for a little while. Let them become reacquainted to their life as an agent.”

“Are…bows allowed?” he murmurs, honestly curious.

“Definitely,” Hayes smiles. “We have one of your own waiting with the other equipment. We even brought your quiver and arrows.”

He is stunned. They would actually let him handle a weapon, and not just any weapon, but his _bow_ (The fact that SHIELD would have had to ransack his apartment to retrieve it wasn’t as important to him). They were going to let him handle the weapon that made him the world’s greatest marksman.

“You’d really let me do that?” His tone carries his disbelief.

“If you stop dodging my questions, then yes,” she replies, giving him a warm smile.

His plan is working, and turning out even better than he thought. The shooting range was most likely on another floor. He would get to see more of the facility, and possibly spot an escape route. And they were going to let him have access to a weapon. It’s the perfect opportunity.

Clint sits up in his chair. “What was the question again?”

“How did Loki take control?” she repeats.

“He had appeared in the room with the tesseract. I was fighting him. He grabbed my arm, twisting my gun away from him. Then, he touched his specter to my chest,” he licks his lips. “I remember feeling cold, chilled all over. I saw everything through this eerie blue tint. All I wanted to do was serve him.” His voice is hollow when he finishes.

Clint swallows, gripping the arms of the chair. The more he thinks about it, the more he slips into a nightmare. He needs to remember where he is. He is here, in this SHIELD facility, locked away. He is in a prison of the body, not of the mind.

“That’s good, Clint. Thank you for sharing that with me,” Hayes encourages. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to talk about it anymore today.”

She’s giving him an out. That has never happened before.

“I…I would like to go to the shooting range now, please,” he says feebly, almost begging. He hates how much power she has over him. He has been reduced to the status of a five year old.

“Of course,” she says. “I’ll just get a guard to escort us, alright?”

He nods and she leaves the room.

Clint can’t remember a time he has ever felt this excited. He can’t wait to have his bow in his hands again. He can’t wait to fire off an arrow and feel the satisfaction of hitting a target dead center. He is the best. And he has a chance to prove it.


	4. Part I: Questions

_Thunk._  Bull's-eye.

Clint smiles. The shooting range is the best part of being stuck here. While the facility does have a small gym, nothing is quite as satisfying as hitting his mark. The adrenaline rush just could not compare.

A few of the guards on duty cheer him on. In this moment, he can almost forget where he is. But when the hour is over, everything comes rushing back.

Over a month, Clint has been to the shooting range two to three times a week. He has not yet attempted an escape. He is still mapping out the route and sharpening his aim. Although he had maintained his upper body strength, it had been months since he had used a bow. At first, he had been sloppy, hitting the target, but not with the precision he needed to escape. Now, his aim is perfect.

With each day, he feels a little better. The guilt still weighs him down, but now he can see why it shouldn't. Sometimes, the cloak feels just a little lighter. He hasn't forgiven himself, but the guilt does not consume him anymore.

After his sessions, he is usually allowed to go to the shooting range. He can handle an hour with Hayes to earn an hour of limited freedom. But even then, his sessions don't seem has horrible as they used to. Maybe he's getting more comfortable talking about Loki, or maybe he's more comfortable with Hayes. Whatever it is, Clint can't help but feel glad.

He looses another arrow, grinning when it hits dead center.

Maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to escape after all.

* * *

Hayes watches Barton on a tiny screen in the security booth. He never misses the target. Not even once. Not even a month ago, when he was somewhat rusty.

 _It must be all muscle memory_ , she muses.

The door opens and a tall, muscled guard enters.

"He's an amazing shot," she states.

"He is," the guard agrees, sitting next to her. "He'll make a great asset."

"He will," she assures. "He already trusts me. Yesterday, I got him to open up about his feelings toward Romanoff. She appears to be a weakness."

"If we can locate her, we could use that to our advantage."

"Capturing the Black Widow? I'd rather not waste our time. If she and Barton share a mutual affection, I have a feeling she'll show up on our doorstep eventually."

"But in the meantime, we need information," he reminds Hayes.

"I haven't forgotten," she replies. "He's being particularly difficult on the subject. Either he doesn't know or he doesn't want to talk."

"Whatever it is, you need to get to the bottom of it and fast."

"I will. I'm adjusting his prescription. He will be much more docile."

"Good."

* * *

The next day, Clint receives an extra pill. One is his anti-depressant, the other he doesn't recognize. The second pill is small, yellow and oval-shaped.

"I'm making an adjustment to your prescription," Hayes explains. "The new pill is to help you sleep."

While he has been feeling better, his nightmares still persist. Every night, he is forced to relive his time with Loki. Every single moment, every person he killed.

"There's anti-nightmare pills now?" Clint quips.

Hayes gives him a disapproving look. "It will relax you. Keep your mind calm, especially at night. It's SHIELD produced and is designed to work with your natural body chemistry. It takes time for the drug to be absorbed into your system. That's why you're taking it now and not just before bed."

Still, he is skeptical. If this drug is made in-house, is there any guarantee that it actually does what Hayes claims? What use would SHIELD have for a sleeping pill? Then again, he avoided taking the anti-depressants, but the pills ended up helping him. Maybe Hayes does have his best interests in mind.

"Take it, Clint," Hayes says softly. "It'll help you."

Even if he wanted to avoid taking the pill, it would be difficult to hide. Tucking it away in his throat presents a challenge while also swallowing the anti-depressant. And with the post-swallow inspection, that option is useless. He should take both pills now before the orderly forces them down his throat.

Clint places the pills on his tongue, takes a swig of water, and swallows.

Hayes gives an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," she says softly. "It will take a few days before you see any significant effects, but you should see some improvement tonight."

He nods, standing. The orderly leads him out of the room.

As he is lead back to his room, Clint feels the mysterious pill settle in his stomach. He finds it hard to believe that SHIELD would devote resources to create a sleeping pill. While there are plenty of agents who suffer from PTSD and nightmares, most of them recover just fine with conventional methods.

Also, he is sure that if the pill is commonly used in SHIELD, he would have heard about it by now. With that explanation out the window, the pill is either a well-kept secret or brand new. If it's new, he's a guinea pig. If it's a secret, he's a target. Both possibilities are unsettling. Why would SHIELD develop a sleeping pill and then test it on psychiatric patients without so much as a waiver form? And if it is a secret, why would SHIELD classify a sleeping pill unless it actually  _wasn't_  a sleeping pill?

Clint arrives at his room.

"Dinner is in an hour," the orderly reminded him.

Clint nods and goes to sit on his bed.

The question is: what is this pill actually for? And why would Hayes need to give it to him? Who is Hayes anyway?

As part of SHIELD regulation, all specialists are required to sit down with a therapist after every field mission. Clint was consistently assigned to Doctor Numen, a gruff old man. One of the things Clint appreciated about Numen was that he didn't coddle his patients. He was direct and to the point, and never used the condescending voice that Hayes so often employs.

When Clint was first assigned to Hayes, he had assumed that Numen had retired or died. Neither of those had occurred. The change in doctor came from high in the command structure, probably from Fury himself.

Why? Clint had no idea.

He didn't seem to know much anymore.


	5. Part I: Agent Henry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major spoilers for season 1 of Agents of SHIELD in this chapter.

Clint does not sleep much that night. Not because he is avoiding nightmares (although that is a plus), but because he is planning.

To get the answers he needs, Clint will need access to a computer. The only computers he has seen are in the security booths. There is always at least one guard present. To get access, he’d need to clear them out.

Of course, he could storm into the booth and take them out by hand, but that would most likely raise an alarm. He would barely get a minute with the computer before a new wave of guards would take him down. That wouldn’t be enough time.

The next option is to create a distraction. He’d need something that would force the guards to leave the booth for at least five minutes, possibly more. This is not something he could do on his own. He needs help. Unfortunately.

Clint had avoided socializing with the other patients in the facility. Mostly because they seemed worse off than himself. It is depressing to talk with them. But for his plan to work, he’d need the support of at least one other patient.

He creates a mental list of the people he has spoken with in the facility. There’s Marcus: red hair, blue eyes, rumored schizophrenia, paranoid. Gonzales: black hair, brown eyes, bipolar, won’t stay on her meds, unstable. Henry: blond hair, green eyes, severe PTSD from prolonged torture (Clint remembers Henry had once slipped him some contraband skittles at dinner), resourceful. Henry would be a useful ally.

If Clint could get him on board.

* * *

 

After breakfast, Clint seeks out Henry in the common room. He is working on a puzzle.

Clint sits across from him.

“Barton,” Henry says, fitting two pieces together.

"Henry,” Clint replies.

They are silent for a few minutes. Clint watches Henry, analyzing his precise movements. It reminds him eerily of Coulson. Henry must have been a high-ranking agent, Level 8 at least.

“So you like puzzles?” Clint asks.

“Not particularly.”

Clint nods.

“So why are you sitting there?” Henry asks, looking up to point at Clint’s chair. “You’ve been here for months and I haven’t seen you even attempting to socialize.”

Clint shrugs. “Doc says forming relationships is productive for my recovery.”

“Bullshit.”

Clint sighs. “Look, I just want to get out of here as quickly as I can.”

Henry snorts. “Good luck with that.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Me?” Henry leans back in his chair, tapping a puzzle piece on the table. “Oh about four years.”

“What?”

Henry smiles. His eyes remain expressionless. “Yeah.”

“Why would you need twenty-four hour care for _four years_?”

“You tell me, kid.” Henry turns back to the table, fitting a piece in the puzzle.

Clint is reeling. He had imagined once his suicidal tendencies had abated, he would be transferred to a minimum-security facility. But, maybe Henry had made little progress since his arrival. Except that he seems okay to Clint – almost normal.

“What’s your clearance level?” Henry asks.

“Um, Six.”

He looks up, squinting his eyes at Clint. “Really. The infamous Hawkeye is only a Level Six?”

“I was going to be promoted to Seven before-” He cuts himself off. _Before Loki_.

“Before you were sent here,” Henry finishes for him.

Clint shrugs.

Henry busies himself with the puzzle for a few moments.

“What I can’t figure out,” Henry says, keeping his tone conversational, “is why they brought you here.”

“What do you mean?” Clint says, echoing his tone. Clint recognizes Henry’s attempt at secrecy. Espionage lesson two: act like what you’re doing isn’t important and no one will pay attention. Natasha had taught him that.

 _Natasha._ Why hadn’t she come for him? Knowing her, she would have returned from her mission by now – probably a couple weeks ago. Why isn’t she busting down doors trying to find him?

“Everybody’s here because they know something,” Henry continues, pulling Clint from his thoughts. “I was a part of a highly-classified sting operation in Europe. No one could figure out why it was FUBARed. Plus, I know a few secrets SHIELD has been keeping.

“Marcus, over there,” Henry gestures to the man staring out the window, “was very high up in the command structure, just under Hill. And Gonzales,” he points to a small woman scribbling furiously with a black crayon, “was the commanding officer on project TAHITI. Under Coulson, of course.”

Clint blinked. Project TAHITI? He knew his handler had other duties inside SHIELD, but he had only ever seen him coordinating the Avengers Initiative. Clint felt like Coulson had a whole other life he had kept from him.

“Most everyone else in the facility is the same,” Henry says. “It’s a weird coincidence, huh?”

“Why would they put us all in the same place?” Clint asks. There are 100 people in this facility. Why would so many important people in SHIELD go crazy?

Henry shakes his head, gesturing to the unsorted puzzle pieces. Clint bends down over the box, pulling out the ones that would go on the edge.

“I figured that out awhile ago. That’s not the question you need to be asking.” Henry fits two more pieces together. “What you need to figure out is why they put _you_ here. What do you know that they don’t?”

“It’s SHIELD,” Clint replies, tossing three more pieces onto the table. “There’s nothing they don’t know.”

“Well, you might be right about the second part. But it’s not SHIELD.”

Clint looks up at Henry. “What do you mean? This is a SHIELD facility.”

“Sure,” Henry agrees. “On the outside.”

 _Okay…This man is insane_ , Clint thinks, and then snorts. What else had he been expecting?

Just as Clint is thinking of a way to get out of the conversation, Henry picks up another puzzle piece. He starts tapping it on the table while perusing the pieces Clint had pulled from the box.

Clint recognizes the pattern from earlier in their conversation. It isn’t random. It is Morse code.

He bends over the puzzle box, deciphering the pattern.

 _Tap-tap-tap-tap_ : H.

 _Tap. Tap, tap. Tap_ : Y.

 _Tap. Tap-tap_ : D.

 _Tap, tap. Tap_ : R.

 _Tap, tap_ : A.

Clint listens to the pattern once more, just to be sure. Then, he looks up at Henry, who smirks and nods.

Hydra? But Steve Rogers disbanded Hydra in World War II. They don’t exist anymore. Unless…Natasha always said hiding in plain sight is the best disguise. _Lesson one: When you’re on the run, don’t run, walk._ Could there be Hydra sleeper agents hidden within SHIELD? But how? And why haven’t they been detected?

Clint couldn’t deny that Henry’s theory made sense when applied to the facility. Why else would SHIELD round up people with important information? Hydra is looking for classified intel, using psychiatrists to collect it from agents.

But supposing Hydra had agents hidden within SHIELD at all (which Clint highly doubts at this point), why would they need this facility at all? They would just need someone with clearance.

“What’s your clearance level?” Clint asks.

“Nine,” Henry replies.

Clint nods. Only someone loyal to SHIELD, and SHIELD alone, could climb that high within its ranks. Hydra must not have an agent above Level 7. If Hydra existed, that is.

“So what do you know, kid?” Henry asks.

Clint stares. What _did_ he know? He apparently didn’t even have clearance to know everything Coulson was doing. Why would they need a Level 6 agent?

He runs through every mission of importance. Budapest, classified Level 6. New Mexico, Level 7. New York, Level 8. (But every news station has footage of what happened that day.)

 _Loki_.

Clint’s debriefing was classified all the way up to Level 9. And then, given to only essential personnel. SHIELD medical teams had poked and prodded at him for days just to be sure he was uncompromised. He was released with no consequences. Or so he had thought.

Whatever they wanted to know, it had to do with Loki. For the past month, Hayes has been very focused on getting Clint to relive the moment Loki took control. _How did you feel? What were you thinking? What changed in your mind?_

Assuming Hydra had somehow infiltrated SHIELD, Hayes might be looking to discover how Loki took control of him. If Hydra needs soldiers, mindlessly loyal ones would be in high demand.

“Henry, you think you can help me get access to a computer?”

He raised an eyebrow at Clint. “What for?”

“There’s some info I need.”

Henry studies the puzzle for a moment. “You won’t get more than a few minutes at most.”

“That’s fine.”

“Alright. Sit with me at dinner.”

Clint nods and turns back to the box, picking out a few pieces. Once he had computer access, he’d be able to figure out what Natasha is doing, what the strange yellow pill is, and if Hydra really still exists.

He hoped Henry had a good plan.


	6. Part I: Espionage

Anxious, Clint sits down across from Henry at dinner. Henry simply nods and continues to pick through his salad.

Reluctantly, Clint follows the other man’s lead. His appetite is completely gone, but he manages to swallow a few bites of his mashed potatoes before Henry finally speaks.

“We need to be as impromptu as possible,” he says.

Clint frowns. He was familiar with improvisation. Several ops he had been assigned to and fallen apart. But to go into a mission without any specific working plan at all felt strange to him.

Henry continues, “Tomorrow morning on the way to breakfast, walk straight to the security booth. I’m assuming you know how to get to the info you need?”

Clint nods. “But we still have to get rid of the guards, right?”

Henry shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. I just need a favor from you.”

“What?”

Henry slides a small scrap of paper across the table.

“Find out where his loyalties lie.”

 

* * *

 

The name Henry had given Clint was John Garrett.

There are only two things Clint knows about Garrett: 1) that he is a combat specialist for SHIELD and 2) he was Coulson’s friend.

And Henry believes that Garrett may have ties to Hydra.

Clint couldn’t believe that. Coulson was very careful about his friends. There’s no way he would have had a close friend who worked for Hydra. It just wasn’t possible.

And if one of Phil’s friends had betrayed him, then Clint surely had friends who were working for Hydra behind his back. Clint couldn’t judge a person’s character was well as Coulson did.

What if the reason Natasha hadn’t come looking for him was because she was actually working for Hydra? What if she actually _helped_ Hayes in getting him to this hospital? What if she had lied to him all of these years?

The more he thinks about it, the more it makes a sickening amount of sense. Natasha is never loyal to anyone or anything but herself. It wouldn’t matter to her who she was working for as long as she got something out of it.

But what would Hydra have to give her? They are much less forgiving with their agents than SHIELD. She wouldn't put her life at risk unless there was a pretty good reason. And setting all of that aside, Clint had saved her life. She had been initiated into SHIELD alongside him and underneath Coulson. Natasha would have needed a very, _very_ good reason to switch sides.

Clint considers the possibility of Phil being Hydra, but quickly dismisses the thought. Phil had been recruited out of high school by Fury himself. SHIELD was his life. He would never work for Hydra, especially because his childhood hero was morally opposed to everything Hydra stands for.

Clint lies awake sorting through every agent he knows, trying to figure out which ones are Hydra and which are SHIELD. He comes up empty handed. That’s the problem with working alongside spies – you never know when they are lying.

 

* * *

 

Clint jumps out of bed as soon as the breakfast bell rings. He needs information and fast. He has to know who he can trust.

He walks at a painfully leisurely pace. To pass the time, he counts the steps to the security booth.

Once he reaches thirty-five, he slows. The booth is less than five steps away. Two guards sit behind computers.

What kind of distraction could Henry have come up with in one night?

Suddenly, the guards dash out of the booth, running toward the opposite end of the building. Clint rushes inside.

With a quick glance, he sees that even the security cameras are out. Henry deserves major brownie points.

Clint sits at a computer, hastily hacking past the login screen. He has never been more grateful for Natasha’s coding seminars.

A database appears before him, similar to SHIELD’s setup. At first glance, a casual observer wouldn’t be able to spot the difference. But when he searches for a _Romanoff, Natasha_ , the top of her file holds an interesting status message: SHIELD CONFIRMED.

Hurriedly, Clint searches for Garrett. His status: HYDRA CONFIRMED.

His world lurches sideways. He types Coulson’s name next. SHIELD CONFIRMED.

He lets out a breath. Phil never worked for Hydra. Garrett switched sides in 1990. Natasha didn’t betray him.

 _Okay. Now what does Hydra want with me?_ Clint thinks. He searches for his file.

His loyalty to SHIELD is labeled at the top. He skims until he finds current notes. Hayes had written a couple entries in the past few days. The most recent was yesterday.

_Barton is becoming more cooperative. He would be a useful source of intel after his purposes here are through. However, he should be made to comply._

Clint is thrown by the last sentence. It doesn’t make any sense, but he doesn’t have time to try to decipher it. Maybe Henry would understand what it means.

Clint glances out the windows. No one has noticed him yet. He has time for maybe one more search.

He types in “Project TAHITI.” If Coulson was the head of it, he has to know more.

Outside the booth, there is a struggle. Clint looks up to see Henry blocking the door. The guards are fighting to get to Clint and they are winning.

Clint scans the file before him. A lot of it is scientific data that goes over his head. But one line in particular sticks out:

_Coulson was successfully revived._

Project TAHITI found a way to bring someone back from the dead. Coulson was a successful case. He is alive.

_Phil is alive._

That thought consumes Clint’s mind when the guards crash into the booth.

He doesn’t even put up a struggle as they drag him out.

 

* * *

 

Clint wakes slowly, fighting against the haze that surrounds his mind. A frantic beeping echoes in his ears.

“Barton, calm down,” someone murmurs, a hand patting his chest. “No one is going to hurt you.”

It takes him a moment to realize that the beeping is a heart monitor. Hayes is hovering above him. He tries to move away from her, but his arm flares with pain. Clint looks down to see an IV embedded in his skin.

“What…did you give me?” he slurs, falling back onto the bed.

Hayes gives him a warm smile. “It’s just something to help you relax. Nothing to worry about.”

Clint closes his eyes as the room starts to spin.

“What do you want from me?” he demands.

“I only want to help you heal, Clint” she replies, her pleasant tone grating on his nerves. “Try to set the paranoia aside. It’s just a symptom of your condition.”

He opens his eyes, squinting at Hayes. “So I don’t get punished for hacking into a secure network?”

“Oh no. Of course not. Your actions were caused by your paranoia. It is hardly your fault.”

Clint wonders if she knows that Henry had been involved in the plan.

“Cool. So can I go now or are you going to force more drugs into my system?”

Hayes shakes her head. “Just stay put, Clint. While you’re not being punished, we need to ensure that you are in the right environment.”

“Yeah? And what the fuck does that mean?”

She attempts to maintain a comforting expression. “We’re transferring you to a more secure facility. I’m positive this change will be beneficial to your recovery.”


	7. Part I: Dreams

The next morning, Clint is woken roughly and shoved into a wheel chair. The IV remains in place, much to his dismay. He had ripped it out once Hayes was done with her little speech last night, but it was quickly reinserted into his other arm. So that plan is a bust.

Clint is wheeled out into the hallway, and toward a set of large, sliding glass doors. He blinks against the sun when he’s pushed outside. After that, he is helped into a black car. A nurse does something with his IV. Exhaustion hits him hard. He gives up fighting.

* * *

Clint wakes in yet another hospital bed. He remains still, slowly opening his eyes. He quickly scans the room. It appears to be a regular hospital room until he sees the door. It has a special key-swipe lock, with a number code and a retinal scan. Hydra desperately wants to keep him locked up.

He turns his head, finding another bed beside his. Henry lays in it, appearing to be asleep. Clint is about seventy percent sure Henry is faking it.

Clint is a little relieved that he is not alone. It means that direct torture won’t be on the menu – at least for today. He completes his scan of the room, finding a small security camera in the corner. His captors are waiting to see if the two prisoners will talk to each other. Maybe they would divulge some classified intel.

 _Like hell_ , Clint thinks. He settles back into the bed, closing his eyes. He pictures a possible plan of action.

Whenever a nurse or a doctor comes in through the door, he would put them down and use their card to get through the door. From there, he would need to find a place to contact Natasha. He needs help from the outside to escape Hydra. Right now, she is his only hope.

His mind rushes back to the Hydra files. His eyes snap open.

“Hey, Henry,” he says.

“What?” Henry grunts.

“Garrett is Hydra.” Clint didn’t think this would be news to anyone listening in.

Henry nods. “Thanks.”

Clint nods in return and they both settle into their beds.

He ponders over his own file. Hayes had recommended that he “be made to comply.” What the hell did that mean?

Did they want to torture him into submission? Turn him into a Hydra sniper?

The word “comply” haunts him. It rings a bell deep in his mind.

 _Loki_. Compliance was his game.

Hydra wants to brainwash him. No way in hell is he going to let anyone fuck with his mind again, alien or not.

He needs to find a way out. And fast.

* * *

 

Clint and Henry make it through three meals without speaking a word to each other. The food trays were pushed through a slot in the door. No one had entered the room yet. Clint keeps rolling his discoveries around in his head.

Coulson is alive. Fury lied to him – to everyone. Where was Phil now? Is he still with SHIELD? Or is he a civilian now?

 _Maybe Fury finally sent him on vacation_ , Clint muses.

After he finds Natasha, he’ll look for Phil.

But, once again, he would have to escape first.

“You know,” Clint says, turning to Henry. “I think they’re gonna try to brainwash us.”

“Sounds fun,” Henry replies. “Think they were inspired by your experience?”

Clint knows he is referring to Loki. There is no one in SHIELD or Hydra that didn’t know what happened. He shakes his head.

“Nah. Sounds like they have their own way.”

“Awesome.”

“Totally.”

* * *

_“Tell us what you know about Loki.”_

The voice is deep, robotic. Not human.

Clint starts. The room is dim. His hands are chained above his head. He is staring at a screen filled with patternless colors. He closes his eyes. Freezing water blankets his head, pouring down his body.

He gasps, shivering. He yanks on his restraints.

_“Describe how Loki took control over you.”_

“What?” his voice is hoarse. His throat aches.

His skin lights on fire. His joints seize.

_"Everything is going to be alright, Clint.”_

* * *

 

Clint wakes in the faux hospital room. Henry lies on his bed.

“You okay?” Clint asks.

Henry nods. “You?”

“Fine,” he replies. “Weird dream.”

“Lucky you.”

“Tell me about it.”

Clint looks toward the door, then the security camera. He hopes someone would come by soon. His entire escape plan hinges on having access to a card and an eyeball.

“Just waiting for this to turn into a party,” he says.

Henry smiles and nods. “It is getting a little monotonous.”

“Well, we could always starve ourselves. See if anyone comes in to force feed us.”

“That would get messy fast.”

Clint looks at the camera. “Seriously,” he says. “We know the game you’re playing. It’s not going to work.”

They sat in silence, waiting for a visitor.

None arrives.

* * *

Bright purple assaults his vision. His hands are numb, his arms tingling.

_“How did Loki lose control?”_

His head lolls against his shoulder.

“Who are you?” he murmurs.

The colors start to swirl, making his vision swim.

_“Describe your experience.”_

Blue and green intersect and collide. Purple emerges again, then fades slowly into yellow and orange.

“I…don’t know,” he breathes, enthralled in the light.

_“Everything is going to be alright, Clint.”_

* * *

 Clint jerks awake, panting.

“What was it this time?” Henry asks.

He rubs the back of his neck. The dream was fading fast. “Don’t really remember.”

“That’s okay. Everything feels real when you’re dreaming.”

“Yeah. That’s what worries me.”

Another pair of food trays are pushed through the slot. Henry stands to collect them.

“Maybe they’re trying to drive us to insanity,” Clint muses.

“If that was their plan,” Henry replies. “why would we be in here together?”

He gives Clint his tray and settles in to eat his own.

“You have a point there.” Clint sighs. “Think they forgot about us?”

“I can only hope.”

* * *

_“Are you ready to comply?”_

Clint gasps, his body stinging and throbbing.

He groans and closes his eyes.

White and black flash alternately, forcing him to close his eyes. His head is pounding.

_"Describe your relationship with Loki.”_

“It was just a…one time thing. No strings attached, really.”

Bright red blinds him. He pulls against the restraints.

“No, stop. Please. I don’t know anything. Just…let me go.”

Suddenly, his restraints fall apart. He crashes to the ground, grunting.

A warm hand lightly rests on his.

“Everything is going to be alright, Clint.”


	8. Part I: Little Bird

"Everything is going to be alright, Clint."

Clint studies the hand. It is soft and warm on his skin. Small, feminine and pale with black nail polish.

Then, he slowly looks up at the owner.

He can’t believe his eyes.

“Tasha?”

She gives him a small smile. “Hey there, bird brain.”

He looks back at her hand, still on his. Something is different.

“Since when do you paint your nails?”

She ignores him. “Can you stand?”

Clint attempts to put his feet under him. He barely makes it to his knees. He feels boneless.

“Maybe a little help?” he asks, trying to temper the panic building inside him.

Natasha wraps an arm around his shoulders, patting him softly. “Just lean on me. I’ve cleared a path already.”

“Got a weapon on you?” he croaks, walking on shaky legs.

She gives him a handgun and draws one of her own.

“How many are we expecting?” he questions as she scans the hallway before helping him out of the room.

“At least six, probably closer to ten.”

“Right.” He looks back over his shoulder as she leads him toward the door. The apparatus that kept him standing is sharp and metallic. A projector hangs from the ceiling, with several bullet holes in the side. Two men lie motionless on the floor, blood pooling around them. He doesn’t remember hearing gunshots.

“Clint,” she says softly, pulling him toward the door again.

He shakes his head, gripping the handgun tightly.

She leads him out of the room and into a cramped hallway.

“Do you know where any of the other prisoners are being held?” he asks.

“Why?” He tone is light, but her face shows a hint of concern. “Got a prison girlfriend I should know about?”

He huffs a breath. Her sarcasm is familiar, but is irritating at the moment. “ _His_ name is Henry,” Clint replies. “Well, his last name anyway.”

Natasha doesn’t respond until she drags him around a corner. They both eliminate two guards in a matter of seconds.

“You mean, Winston Henry?” She asks, looking at him in concern.

“I don’t know,” he tries to shrug, but ends up wincing in pain. “I guess. Said he was part of this sting operation in Europe. It got FURBARed.”

“Clint,” she says softly, halting their steps. “He’s been institutionalized since that mission.”

“Yeah. Because that’s where Hydra wanted him,” he says emphatically. “They wanted to know what he knew.”

“Let's just get out of here,” She rubs his shoulder soothingly. “We’ll talk once you’re fed and rested.”

He pushes away from her. She blinks at him, frowning.

“No,” he says. “I’m not leaving him here.”

She steps into his space, gripping his arm tightly. 

“There is no one else in this facility, Clint," she says, giving him a hard look. "Hydra was transferring everyone out. He isn’t here.” 

He stares at her, searching her face. Natasha wouldn’t lie to him. Not about something like this. Henry really is gone.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“We’ll find him, Clint,” she promises.

Clint nods, leaning on her again. His legs are still incredibly weak.

“How much farther?”

“Almost out,” she replies, turning her head to scan the hallway.

Clint catches a glint of metal on her neck. A small, silver arrow. He smirks.

She looks back at him. “What?”

“Nice necklace,” he replies.

She rolls her eyes.

* * *

 

 Clint is half conscious when Natasha tucked him into bed at a safe house. She slowly pulls away from him, running a hand through his hair.

“Tasha,” he mumbles.

“Here,” she replies.

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” He pulls her into bed with him, curling around her.

She chuckles. “Well okay then, Mr. Snuggles.”

He just hums. He won’t ever say it out loud, but he really did miss her. He remembers the comfort of their missions: Natasha covering his back, Phil talking in his ear.

His eyes snap open. _Phil_.

Natasha feels his muscles tense. She runs a hand through his hair. “Clint?”

He pulls back slightly, swallowing. “Phil is alive.”

Confusion washes over her face, followed by a flash of guilt.

“How did you find out?” she asks.

Clint examines her carefully. She is neither shocked nor surprised by the news. She knew. She knew Phil was alive and didn’t say a word.

“How did _you_?” he spits, pulling completely away from her. He would have pushed her off the bed entirely, but he still wants an answer.

“It wasn’t like that, Clint,” she sighs, biting her lip. “I only found out a few days ago. I wouldn’t have kept that from you.”

As far as he can tell, she isn't lying. He decides to believe her. She is still his best friend. He trusts her.

“How did you find out?” he asks, anger ebbing slightly.

“I read SHIELD's database,” she says softly. “Coulson was dead for days. Fury ordered that he be revived through this controversial procedure.”

“Project TAHITI,” Clint supplies. He had read that file too.

She raises an eyebrow. He has no doubt she will ask him about his knowledge later. “Yes. And as far as I can tell, Coulson doesn’t know what SHIELD did, what Fury did, to bring him back.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He has his own team, took one of the old 747s. He runs his own mobile unit. I don’t know where he ended up after-” she cuts herself off, seemingly searching for the right word, “…everything.”

Clint knows her too well. She is evading something. And it is probably connected to his kidnapping.

“You mean, after Hydra,” he murmurs.

She lets out a breath. “You found out who was holding you.”

“Yeah,” he replies, staring at her.

She bites her lip. She knows he wants an explanation. Clint needs to know what Natasha was doing while he was stuck with Hayes. He needs to know why she didn't come for him sooner.

“Long story short,” she says. “I helped Steve take down Hydra. They were inside every corner of SHIELD. To destroy them, we had to expose all of SHIELD’s records, all of its secrets, absolutely everything.”

"So you what? Dumped the entirety of SHIELD's highly-classified database on the internet?"

She tilts her head. "That's exactly what I did."

All of SHIELD’s records included several of his and Natasha’s covers and aliases. Most of their safe houses, too.

“Well, we’re pretty much screwed, aren’t we?” he chuckles.

She smirks. “We’re not too bad off. I still have this place, and a couple names if we need them.”

“Yeah, I have some back ups.” Clint never told SHIELD all of his aliases. He had wanted an escape route if anything had gone wrong. And he supposes it has. “So what’s the plan? We can’t stay here indefinitely.”

She pulls him close, running her fingers through his hair. “We’ll last a few days. Enough time for you to rest. Then, maybe we contact Stark.”

Clint snorts. “That’ll be fun. Why not Cap?”

“Steve is on his own personal mission. He won’t be much help. Unfortunately, Stark is the safest bet. He's not compromised.”

“Cool," he murmurs, his eyes sliding shut. "So we take a pit stop there and figure out our next move."

“I’ll take care of you,” she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Rest, little bird.”

He hums, drifting off to sleep.


	9. Interlude: Compromised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha makes a decision. Clint self-medicates. (Set about six months after the Battle of New York.)

A cheerful trill pierces the still night.

Natasha groans, rolling over in bed to answer her phone. She doesn’t recognize the number.

She accepts the call.

“Heeeey, ‘asha,” a low voice slurs. With the amount of background noise, it takes her a moment to recognize his voice.

“Clint?” She sits up in bed, searching the floor for her boots. “Give me a status report. Do you need backup?”

Since New York, Clint has been making a habit of frequenting local bars. Most of the time, it’s for a random hook up. But occasionally, he decides to try his own brand of vigilante justice. Natasha hopes he wasn’t being too stupid tonight.

“…Back...up,” he says slowly. It sounds like he’s playing with the phone cord. “Yep. Lots…lots of backup. Bring everyone, Nat. Some guys here. Kind of mean. Should teach them a…lesson.”

“Stand down, Hawkeye,” she says sternly, pulling on a jacket and her boots. Using his call sign is a cheap move, but it’ll get even an extremely drunk Clint to listen. “Where are you?”

“Bar,” he says unhelpfully. She rolls her eyes. “Um… something with roses?”

She sighs. Rose’s Lounge is a cheap bar about three blocks from his apartment.

“Okay, Clint. I’m en route,” she says, grabbing her car keys. “Just stay put. Don’t move, you got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles. She hears him drop the phone. Someone angrily hangs up.

* * *

Natasha arrives ten minutes later. She finds Clint in an alley close to the bar. Three men are crowded around him; one has him pressed against the brick wall.

She pulls her car across the mouth of the alley. She steps out, leaning on the open door.

“What’s going on here, boys?” she asks, smiling.

“This doesn’t concern you,” one of the men, obviously the ringleader, replies.

“Tasha!” Clint yells happily. He is thrown into the wall again. The man holding him glares.

“You know this bitch?” he demands.

Clint whistles. “Bad move, bro,” He slurs. “She ain’t gonna like that you called her that.”

Natasha slams the car door, anger rising. Clint has been completely ignoring her since the Battle of New York, except for his drunken late-night phone calls. And now, he has the nerve to tell this pathetic excuse of a man about her mood. While Clint is absolutely right, it still irks Natasha that he is behaving like nothing has changed. Like he hasn’t been avoiding her and all of the other Avengers. She is beyond frustrated with this new side of him.

She moves on the leader first, aiming a hard punch to his side. He goes down with a groan. The other men turn toward her, leaving Clint free to punch the second man in the face. He goes down without a fight. Natasha rounds on the third man, pulling him up to his feet. She aims a sharp kick to his groin. He goes down, cursing and glaring at Natasha.

"You call anyone else that again, and I’ll do more permanent damage,” she says.

Natasha grabs Clint by the shoulder and pulls him toward the car. She shoves him into the backseat before climbing in behind the wheel.

Other than Clint’s quiet “Thanks, Nat” the ride back to his apartment is spent in silence. Natasha fumes the entire way.

She parks outside his building, stepping out while Clint tumbles onto the street. She grips his shoulder, leaning his body against the car.

“What is going on, Clint?” she asks, looking directly into his eyes. “Talk to me.”

He looks away and swallows. “Doesn’t matter,” he says.

“This matters,” she replies. “You’re avoiding me at all times but you call me when you’re drunk enough to start a fight.”

He sighs. “It’s better than sleeping.”

“What happens when you sleep?”

He shifts nervously. “Look, Nat, thanks and all, but I need to crash.”

She grabs his wrist when he turns to leave. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on, Clint.”

He glares at her, giving into her hold. He’s too drunk to fight back and he knows it.

“Fine. You want to know? Really?” His eyes are burning.

She nods.

“I relive it every night,” he continues. “Shooting Fury, killing all those agents, taking down the helicarrier, Phil…dying. All because of me.”

She releases her grip. “I know that has to be hard, but that wasn’t you, Clint. That was Loki. It wasn’t your fault.”

She is stunned into stillness when Clint swings a punch toward her cheek. She comes back to her senses with just enough time to catch his fist before it lands.

She knows he’s drunk. She knows he’s probably mentally unstable, apparently suffering from some form of PTSD. But she’s still furious with him. And if she’s being honest with herself, she’s hurt. This wasn’t like sparring. He wanted to cause real pain. She could see it in his eyes. She presses her nails into his fist, glaring at him.

“If that’s how you’re going to repay me,” she says, voice hard as stone.

Clint wilts under her gaze. “Just stop trying to help,” he mutters.

She releases his hand. “Why?”

“It doesn’t work.”

 _How did I miss this?,_ she wonders. He has pulled further into himself than she had ever imagined. He’s given up. Completely. It is unacceptable.

“You think you can’t be saved, Clint,” she says. “And you couldn’t be more wrong.”

* * *

Natasha marches into the Triskelion. Her heels click sharply against the floor. Every person she passes moves out of her way. She ignores them.

She walks straight into Fury’s office. She has no appointment, and a barely qualifying security clearance. She is breaching several security protocols. She doesn’t care.

She moves to stand by the Director’s desk.

Fury casually looks up.

“Good morning, Romanoff.”

“Good morning,” she replies, handing him the file she had been carrying.

He takes it and gestures for her to sit. She complies.

“You broke through eight security protocols just to hand me Barton’s file? Seems a moot point to me.”

“This is my personal file on Agent Barton,” Natasha explains, all business. “It includes first-hand accounts of his behavior over the past few months, and also sworn statements from other members of the Initiative.”

Fury opens the file, flipping through the pages. “So you’re concerned.”

“His behavior has been erratic and unpredictable. He is taking unnecessary risks.”

“Your point?”

“You wanted to protect him from scrutiny after the Battle of New York, especially within SHIELD. But he is not functional. In light of the most recent…incident,” Natasha says carefully, “I am recommending Barton be compelled to go through treatment for his mental condition.”

Fury studies her for a moment. His eye casts a penetrating gaze. She doesn’t budge, or breathe, or blink. He finally speaks after several long moments:

“Alright, then. You’ve convinced me.”


	10. Part II: Ghosts

_“Everything is going to be alright, Clint. Take a deep breath, calm your mind.”_

Clint struggles against his bonds. His wrists are constrained above his head, fingers numb.

_“Surrender, and you will find meaning. Surrender, and you will find release.”_

The screen in front of him turns a soothing purple. He does his best to look anywhere else.

_“You know what's best, and what's best is you comply.”_

“No,” Clint argues. He grunts as white-hot pain shoots through his entire body.

_“Compliance will be rewarded. Are you ready to comply, Agent Barton?”_

* * *

Clint gasps awake, fighting his way out of the sheets.

“Clint,” a soft voice calls. Hands land gently on his arms.

He blinks. “Tasha.”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“Safe house. New Jersey.”

She gives him a gentle look.

Right. They had relocated a couple days ago. He shakes his head.

“Stark Tower,” he corrects.

“Good. You’re safe, Clint.”

He nods, taking deep breaths. He slowly comes back to himself. She gently guides him back to the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says as she tucks the sheets around him.

“Not your fault,” Natasha replies, slipping back into bed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Dread slowly weighs on Clint’s chest.

“Hydra has this brainwashing method,” he says the words slowly. He almost can’t believe he is actually saying them. He had been working up the courage to talk to her about it since the first night in the safe house. “I think they tried it on me.”

She takes his hand, squeezing it gently. “Do you know how long they were using the technique?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly, but it can’t have been more than a few hours, maybe a day or two at most.”

“It usually takes awhile to break someone down enough to be open to persuasion,” she explains. “You’re okay, Clint.”

He squeezes her hand tightly, looking into her eyes. “Promise me, if I get triggered somehow, that you’ll stop me. Whatever it takes.”

She squeezes back. “I won’t let you hurt anyone.”

But it wasn’t enough. He leans forward, looking into her eyes. “That includes you too, Nat.”

She gives him a small smile. “Me too.”

“Okay,” he sighs. It isn’t what he wants, but he wasn’t even sure how he had wanted her to respond. She could have blown it off or locked him up.

 _It’ll have to do_ , he decides.

He melts into the mattress as Natasha curls protectively around him. He drifts back to sleep.

* * *

_“It wasn’t your fault.”_

_He is so beyond done hearing that sentence. It never helps. His arm swings of its own accord, his hand curled into a fist. Halfway toward her face, he finds that he actually does want to hit her. It’s not like sparring. It’s not practice. He wants to cause real damage. He wants to hear her jaw crack under the pressure. And it scares him a little._

_She catches the blow before it connects with her cheek. Her are eyes wide, but not with concern. She gives him a hard stare, digging her fingernails into his skin._

_He bites his lip against the pinpricks of pain. It’s a warning._

_“If that’s how you’re going to repay me.”_

_She leaves the sentence unfinished. She could break his arm in less than two seconds if she wanted. He isn’t sure why she doesn’t. He deserves it._

_He swallows, surprised to find that he is blinking back tears._

_“Just stop trying to help,” he says softly._

_She releases his hand. Well, now she’s concerned._

_“Why?”_

_“It doesn’t work.”_

_“You think you can’t be saved, Clint. And you couldn’t be more wrong.”_

_He snorts and turns away. She should really just give up._

* * *

“So you’re sure you two  _aren’t_ together?” Stark asks over breakfast.

“Pretty sure,” Clint says, taking another bite of his cereal. Natasha is busy using Stark’s databases and computing power to run a search on the missing Agent Henry. Clint wanted to join her, but she insisted he eat breakfast.

“Very, very sure?” he asks again, raising an eyebrow.

Clint rolls his eyes. This has been a common occurrence since he and Natasha appeared at Stark Tower two days ago. Stark is annoyingly obsessed with their relationship status.

“I’m going to say this slowly so you understand,” Clint replies. “We’re friends. Best friends. Moooooove oooooon.”

“But she has _the necklace_ ,” Stark insists, almost whispering the last two words.

Clint nearly chokes on his Lucky Charms. “You need a life, dude,” he chuckles.

But he is unperturbed. “She is only the second hottest woman on Earth, Barton. Why are you squandering your chance?”

“Second?” Clint asks as Natasha strolls into the kitchen. She ignores the men and heads straight for the coffee pot.

“Pepper’s first,” Stark says and then looks over to Natasha. “Fair warning: he drank straight from that pot.” He even points a finger at the other man.

Natasha gives Clint her “Was that necessary, Barton?” look and pours a cup anyway.

Clint shrugs and drinks the milk from the bottom of his bowl.

Stark just stares as Natasha takes a sip of her coffee.

“We’ve bled all over each other in the field,” Natasha sighs. “A little spit isn’t going to kill me.”

He groans in frustration. “See? This is why people think you two are a couple.”

“What people? By my count, it’s just you,” Clint says, attempting to examine Natasha’s face for any hints on the research. She doesn’t give away much, as usual.

Natasha cuts Stark off before he can reply.

“I’m not his type,” she says.

Stark looks to him for confirmation, but Clint doesn’t give him anything.

“Any progress?” he asks instead.

She shakes her head. “Barely. Nothing promising.”

“If I was allowed to help with your super secret research project, I wouldn’t have to pass the time thinking about your personal lives,” Stark grouses.

Clint snorts. “You’ll get over it.”

* * *

_“Clint?” Natasha calls._

_He groans, pulling the blanket over his head. She needs to be quieter. It’s just cruel._

_There are a few moments of blissful silence until she runs into his discard pile. Glass bottles knock against each other, echoing in the small space._

_"Aw, Tasha, really?” he mumbles, covering his ears._

_And now she’s poking him. Will the torture never end?_

_He moves the blanket to glare at her. “I don’t remember giving you a key.”_

_Natasha smirks. “Never needed one, bird brain.”_

_“Whatever. Can you just, you know, leave the stuff on the table?”_

_“Aren’t you supposed to stop drinking?”_

_“It’s not like the doctor can prescribe not consuming something.”_

_She scans the room. He knows she’s counting the empty bottles. He hasn’t cleaned in awhile. Her gaze hardens when she looks back at him._

_He knows that look. “Wait, Nat, no. I’ll be good.”_

_It’s too late. She’s already walking toward the kitchen. She’s opening the cabinets. He attempts to follow her, but trips when his foot is caught in the blanket. When he finally crosses the five feet between his couch and the kitchen, she’s already half way through destroying his stash._

_“I paid money for those,” he argues._

_“That’s a shame,” she replies, continuing to dump bottles down the sink._

_“That one’s vodka. You can’t disgrace your homeland like this.”_

_She eyes say “don’t try me” as she empties the bottle. “It’s a ten dollar knock off. It’s worthless.”_

_“Actually, it’s worth twelve, but whatever.”_

_He leans against the counter as she continues to ruin his life._

_“You’re doing the rest,” she says, pulling him toward the sink._

_“What? No, not fair,” he protests as she shoves a whiskey bottle into his hand._

_She crosses her arms and waits._

_Clint looks down at the bottle. She had already removed the cap thing – what was it called? It’s spongy. Whatever. Point is, she made it easier on him than she had to, which he guesses is kinda nice._

_She’s still staring at him when he looks up._

_“Fine. Bye, whiskey,” he mutters and slowly pours the bottle down the sink._

_“Good,” Natasha says. “Here’s another one.”_

_He sighs and empties that one too._

_“I expect you to be good while I’m gone,” she says once he begins pouring out the third bottle._

_“Am I eight now?” he quips on reflex. Then, the rest of the sentence catches up to him. He stops pouring and looks at her. “What do you mean while you’re gone?”_

_“Keep going,” she reminds him. He obeys._

_“I have an assignment,” she continues. “It’s deep cover.”_

_He doesn’t stop pouring this time. “Where?”_

_“Russia.”_

_“How long?”_

_“Six months to a year.”_

_The bottle is empty now. He feels hollow. He sets it gently on the counter._

_“And you’re leaving soon.”_

_“Tomorrow,” she supplies._

_He nods. “Good luck.”_

_Natasha steps close to him, putting her hand under his chin. She gently guides his gaze to meet hers._

_“You’re not alone in this,” she says. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”_

_“You’re leaving,” he reminds her._

_“Fury won’t let anything happen to you either.”_

_He shakes his head. Why does that matter?_

_“You aren’t alone, Clint. Don’t close yourself off.”_

_“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Really, Tasha, I’ll be okay.”_

_“You better be here when I get back.”_

_He nods. She nods._

_She leaves. He watches._

_“Bye, Natasha,” he says to his empty apartment._


End file.
